the Silent Sea (2010)

The Silent Sea

Chapter SEVENTEEN

THE CLOSEST LARGE AIRPORT TO VICKSBURG WAS IN Jackson, Mississippi, fifty miles to the east. The wall of humidity Cabrillo walked into when he stepped out of the terminal made him think he was back in the Amazon. The air shimmered with heat, and he couldn't seem to fill his lungs. Beads of sweat popped up on the dome of Max's balding head, and he had to mop his brow with a bandanna.

My God, he said. What is this place, like, ten miles from the sun?

Eighteen, Juan replied. I read that in the airline magazine.

What made it worse is that both men had donned jackets after retrieving their pistols from the checked baggage.

Rather than bother with the formalities of renting another car, they opted to take a cab instead. Once they found a driver and agreed on a price, the bags went into the trunk and the men settled in the arctic comfort of the taxi's air-conditioning.

With traffic, it took a little over an hour to reach their destination, but they arrived in plenty of time. The Natchez Belle wouldn't leave for its namesake city for another forty minutes.

She was moored behind a structure made up to look like a side-wheel steamer that housed one of the casinos in the shadow of the Vicksburg Bridges, a pair of skeletal steel spans that stretched across the muddy Mississippi. Her boarding gantry was lowered right onto the parking lot. A white tent had been set up nearby, and the brassy beat of jazz music carried to where the men stood, as the cabbie headed back home again. Dozens of people milled around with plates of hors d'oeuvres and drinks in their hands. A few of the boat's staff were in attendance, dressed in period costumes.

What do you know, more gambling. Max no longer noticed the heat.

Forget it, you lost enough in Vegas. You know, it doesn't seem right to me. Vicksburg's the site of one of the most famous battles of the Civil War. I have a hard time putting casinos here. It's like if they put Euro Disney on the Normandy beaches.

A lot of locals agree, I'm sure, but a lot more are grateful for the revenue and jobs.

Juan conceded the point with a nod. It just occurred to me. I have no idea what Tamara Wright looks like. He was reaching for his phone to call Perlmutter when it started to ring.

Chairman, St. Julian here.

Your ears must have been buzzing because I was just reaching for my phone to call you. We don't know what Professor Wright looks like.

She's tall, I'd say six feet, and a light-skinned African American. Her hair was straight the last time I saw her, but that was several years ago. The best way to spot her is she always wears a gold Tijitu pendant.

A what?

It's the Taoist symbol for yin and yang. One half black, the other white. Listen, that's not important. Her grad student just called me again. She says she had another call last night from a man asking about Tamara. She just thought to call me now.

Juan's gut tightened. What did she tell this man?

Everything. She didn't think she was breaking any confidences.

Did the man identify himself?

Yes, he said he was a fellow scholar visiting from Argentina and wanted to set up a meeting with Tamara.

The tightness spread to Cabrillo's chest. He started looking around the small parking lot, expecting to see the Argentine Major at any second.

Perlmutter continued, This isn't good, is it?

No. No, it isn't. It means Professor Wright's life is in danger.

At hearing this Max Hanley also started scanning faces.

Thanks for the warning, St. Julian, Cabrillo said, and folded his phone.

Persistent buggers, aren't they? Max said.

They've been an hour behind us the whole way.

How do you think they found out about Professor Wright?

The same way we would have if I didn't know Perlmutter. I Googled her last night after you went to bed. She's world renowned for her knowledge of ancient Chinese shipping and commerce. If I wanted to learn more about Admiral Tsai, she's the person I'd want to talk to.

I guess this means that rubbing you threw into the kitchen at Ronish's house survived the fire, Max remarked.

What can I say? It was a lousy toss. Come on, let's go check in, then find Dr. Wright. I feel like I've got a target pinned to my back, standing out here.

Despite her antebellum look, the Natchez Belle was a modern ship built with every conceivable amenity for the seventy passengers she could handle at a time as she made her way back and forth between St. Louis and New Orleans. Her two tall, spindly stacks were for show, as was the massive red stern wheel that churned the waters rhythmically. Propellers under her fantail would actually move the vessel.

The interior was as decorative and ornate as the outside. Woodwork gleamed under countless rounds of hand polishing, and all the brass looked as bright as gold. The carpet under their feet, as they stepped to the reception desk, was as plush as any aboard the Oregon.

The duo checked in. Juan was down to his last fake identification thanks to the need to burn their rental in Washington. He asked about Dr. Tamara Wright, but the receptionist, in her hoop-skirt and tight bodice, said they didn't give out information on other passengers. They would have to find her themselves.

Their wood-paneled cabin was tiny, but at least they had a balcony overlooking the Louisiana side of the river. Max made a comment about the bathroom being smaller than a phone booth, to which Cabrillo replied that they weren't here to enjoy the cruise. They didn't unpack their bags and left the cabin quickly.

Before boarding, they had checked the people at the cocktail reception on the quay. Dr. Wright wasn't among the guests, so the next logical place would either be her cabin or up on the sundeck. They hoped they could find her, convince her that she was in danger, and get her away from the stern-wheeler before the Argentines showed up. If not, they would guard her until the next port of call and make their escape then.

There was a bar at the aft section of the upper deck, overlooking the paddle wheel as it turned idly in the current. It was covered by a large white tarp to ward off the last rays of the setting sun. A few passengers were seated around it, and several others sat in nearby sofas, but none matched Tamara Wright's description. Farther forward, in the shadow of the Natchez Belle's ersatz smokestacks, was a sunken hot tub big enough to seat ten. Like the bar, it proved popular with passengers, but there was no sign of Dr. Wright.

What do you think? Max asked.

I think we're going to Natchez, Juan replied.

We might as well get dressed for dinner.

The men hadn't bothered packing suits, so they made due with fresh shirts and the sports jackets they'd been wearing. By the time they emerged from their cabin, the gangway was being levered into its position along the ship's flank. An old-fashioned steam whistle or at least an electronic version of one signaled that the stern-wheeler was about to get under way.

While many passengers lined the upper rails or stood on their balconies to wave good-bye to Vicksburg, Cabrillo and Hanley scoured the Natchez Belle for Tamara or the Argentine hit squad. They found neither.

Both men felt a sense of relief. When the Argentines came, as they no doubt would, it wouldn't be until they reached their next destination. By then, Tamara Wright would understand the danger she was in, and they'd be able to sneak her off the ship. Cabrillo had already worked out a plan for that.

They sauntered up to the main-deck bar again, where most passengers were enjoying another predinner drink and listening to the house jazz band. A concert by legendary jazz pianist Lionel Couture was scheduled for after the meal.

Max suddenly slapped Juan's chest with the back of his hand and pointed. I think I'm in love.

Most of the people they'd seen were older couples out blowing their children's inheritances, so Cabrillo didn't understand what his friend could be talking about. He didn't think it was the mustached bartender wearing the white suit. At least, he hoped it wasn't. The bartender shifted position, and Juan had a clear view of the woman sitting on the opposite side.

He got it now.

That's her, isn't it? he asked.

Notice the necklace. Just like Perlmutter said.

Tamara Wright had to have been a ravishing beauty in her day, and, in her mid-fifties, she was still a striking woman. She had unlined caf+! au lait skin and shoulder-length hair that was as shiny black as a raven's wing. She was smiling at something the bartender said, showing a mouthful of the whitest teeth Juan had ever seen. She wore a patterned spaghetti-strap dress that showed off her toned arms.

He had pictured a cloistered academic when St. Julian first mentioned her and he was delighted to admit how wrong he was.

Juan had to stretch his pace to keep up with Max's bull-in-a-china-shop charge to get to her.

Dr. Wright, Max said with as much gallantry as he could muster. My name is Max Hanley.

A puzzled but pleased look set her smile at just the right angle. I'm sorry. Do we know each other?

Before Max could start in on what could prove to be a lengthy assault on her virtue, Juan stepped in. No, ma'am. You don't know us, but we're here because St. Julian Perlmutter said you'd be here.

You know St. Julian?

Yes, we do, and he said you'd have some insight into a Chinese Admiral that he, as much as it pains him to admit, doesn't.

Now she was really intrigued. Who are you?

Cabrillo. My name is Juan Cabrillo, and a couple of days ago my associate here and I discovered writing at the bottom of something called the Pine Island Treasure Pit that had been put there by Admiral Tsai Song in 1498.

Her mouth hung agape for a moment before she realized she was staring. She took a steadying sip of her white wine. Hanley and Cabrillo didn't look like the types to play a practical joke. They looked deadly serious.

It really is true? Her voice was a wonder-filled whisper.

Yes. Max said, grinning that he was able to provide her with information she obviously relished.

Wait, she said suddenly. Isn't Pine Island where some privateer supposedly buried his treasure?

The reality is even more amazing than that legend, Juan told her. He had already decided to get as much out of her as he could before telling her about the Argentine threat. He didn't want to risk her becoming uncooperative. Please, what can you tell us about Admiral Tsai?

The reason so little is known about him is that when he returned to China, a new Emperor was on the throne, one who didn't believe his subjects should leave the Middle Kingdom, and he put Tsai and his crew to death so they couldn't pollute the people with tales of the outside world. One of the men managed to escape, and it's from him we know about the voyage. She spoke with a real passion on the subject. And while Juan had asked the question, she was directing most of her attention to Max.

Tell us about the ship they were forced to leave behind. Tsai wrote that his men were set upon by an evil but didn't say what really happened.

Yes, that was the Silent Sea. Tsai was forced to sink her and kill all her crew because they had gone mad.

Where did this happen? Max asked.

The survivor was a lowly seaman, not a navigator. He only said that where it took place was a land of ice.

Curious, Juan said. How does

A black woman become an expert on Chinese maritime history?

No, I was going to ask how the story was preserved for so long, but since you brought it up . . .

My father was an electronics engineer who spent most of his career in Taiwan. I was raised in Taipei. That's where I got my undergraduate degree. It was only after I finished that we returned to the States. As for how the story persisted, the survivor, Zedong Cho, wrote it down when he was an old man. He lived in Taiwan when it was just anther province. The manuscript was handed down through the family, but by the time a few generations had passed it was seen as a piece of fiction, the fantasy of an old ancestor with a good imagination. I learned about it because my roommate all four years at university was Susan Zedong, Cho's nine-times-removed granddaughter.

Of course, there was no way to prove Admiral Tsai ever existed because the Emperor erased all evidence of him and all his men, so the story has remained just that, a story.

Until now, Max reminded.

Until now, she smiled at him.

Cabrillo could definitely sense some sparks here, and as much as he'd like to give them time alone, time was a luxury they didn't have.

Does he say what caused the madness? He was thinking about Linda Ross's report. Coincidence was a four-letter word in their line of work.

The Silent Sea got separated from the other two ships for a month on its way to South America. They stopped at a remote island please don't ask which and they traded for fresh food from the natives. That's the only deviation from what the other ships encountered, so I've always believed the food was tainted somehow.

Would you excuse me for a moment, Juan said, and stepped away. Max couldn't have been happier.

Juan dialed the Oregon and asked to be put through to Dr. Huxley.

Jules, its Juan.

Hey, where are you guys?

Believe it or not, on a Mississippi riverboat.

It's warm and sunny, isn't it? There was envy in the ship's medical officer's voice.

The sun just set, but it's still about eighty.

And you're calling to gloat. That's cold, Chairman, even for you.

Listen, have you had a chance to check those samples you asked Murph to bring back from Wilson/George?

Not yet.

Test them for prions.

Prions . . . seriously? You think Andrew Gangle had mad cow disease?

A form of it, yes, and I think he got it from the other body. Prions don't die, right?

They're just proteins, so they aren't really alive. But, yes, in a sense they don't die.

So someone could become infected if prions are introduced into the bloodstream by, say, accidentally jabbing yourself with the bone of a corpse riddled with them?

Julia didn't hesitate. Theoretically. Where'd this brainstorm come from?

A Chinese ship that isn't where it was supposed to be. Do me a favor and tell Mark and Stoney to quit studying the map. I found the bay. He left it at that and rejoined Max and Tamara, who was laughing at some joke Hanley had just cracked.

What was that all about? Max asked.

Playing a hunch about what tainted the food aboard the Silent Sea. Cannibalism was a common occurrence on several Pacific islands, and, if he was right, he knew what kind of meat the Chinese had bartered for. What cargo did the ship carry?

She was loaded with everything from gold and spices to silks and jade, all the items that the Chinese held in esteem. They wanted the best in their dealings with natives they met on their voyage, so they brought only their best. What else did Admiral Tsai write?

I have a translation down in my cabin. It would be my pleasure to get you a copy.

It was only because the band had stopped that Juan heard the low throb of powerful engines. He knew what it was even before he sprang to his feet. His sudden action alerted Max.

Juan raced to the side of the stern-wheeler and peered down into the dark waters. There was enough glow left in the sky for him to see that a forty-foot cigarette-style boat had pulled alongside the Natchez Belle. In it were four men dressed in dark clothes with ski masks pulled over their faces. So many things gelled in his mind at that moment, so many implications of what their dogged pursuit meant. But he didn't have time to dwell on them.

Already one of the men had leapt the narrow gap from the cigarette boat to the lowest deck of the lumbering pleasure boat.

They had four men. One would have to stay with their vessel, meaning three would board the Belle. Juan and Max had faced worse odds, but he had to consider the other passengers' safety. From what he'd seen of the Argentines, they weren't above targeting civilians.

Max, stay with her. Jump over the side if you have to.

Hanley hadn't drawn his pistol but his hand was at the ready in his jacket.

What's happening? Tamara asked, her body sensing the tension in her new companions.

You're in danger, Max said. You have to trust us.

But I don't

Max cut her off. There isn't time. Please, trust me.

Juan had made his way to the main stairwell down to the lower decks when he heard screams coming from below. The Argentines were all aboard now, he guessed, and brandishing weapons. He could see a panicked mob, surging for the stairs. There was no way he'd be able to fight his way down through the mess of clamoring people.

He turned instantly and rushed forward. Next to the hot tub was a peaked skylight made up of dozens of pieces of emerald-cut glass set in a wrought-iron frame. He kicked at a few of the panes, shards of glass cascading onto the dinner table below. More shrieks came from startled early diners who hadn't heard the commotion.

Cabrillo jumped through the opening he'd created and hit the table a little off center. It collapsed, tossing him to the floor in an avalanche of food, cutlery, and plates. His momentum knocked a matronly woman back in her chair so her thick legs were pointed at the ceiling. They bicycled comically as she tried to right herself.

Juan got to his feet, stinking of wine and collard greens. His ankle gave a slight twinge. It wasn't sprained, but he'd twisted it in the fall. While some passengers stared, the husband of the woman he'd knocked over started yelling at him. He made to push Cabrillo in the shoulder, but Juan sidestepped his attempt, rotating in place and pushing the man on the back in a maneuver that looked like a matador turning a charging bull.

It happened so fast that the irate husband took two steps before he realized he was past his target. He spun to up the fight's ante but stopped dead when he saw Juan had drawn his pistol. Cabrillo didn't aim it at him, though he made sure the guy got a good look at it and rethought how best to defend his wife's honor. She still hadn't managed to get her legs down or her backside out of the overturned chair.

The glass doors leading into the dining room were suddenly smashed open. Two of the gunmen burst through. Screams erupted when the passengers saw the assault rifles. Cabrillo recognized them as Ruger Mini-14s, among the best civilian rifles made. He didn't have a clear shot because of the people scrambling to get away from the armed intruders. Some dove under tables while others seemed rooted where they stood, ashen and unsure.

The men swept the room, looking for Tamara Wright. They would easily have gotten a picture off the Internet, something Cabrillo had forgotten to do. Juan turned slightly and crouched so they wouldn't get a look at his face.

Everybody line up against the back wall.

Cabrillo recognized the voice of the Argentine Major.

There was a waiter standing next to the kitchen doors. He slowly tried to sneak his way through and escape. The second gunman saw the movement and fired without hesitation. The bullet caught him square in the chest, its speed sending it straight through him and on into the kitchen, where it ricocheted off some piece of equipment.

The passengers' screaming built into a crescendo of noise that filled the dining room. In this fresh surge of panic, Cabrillo made his move. He knew that once the gunman got control of the room he was a dead man, so he launched himself toward the big picture window overlooking the inky river. He took four paces before the Argentines reacted. A string of rounds from the semiautomatic rifles buzzed around him. Glassware and dishes exploded off the tables when they were hit. One round caught a tuxedoed man in the arm. He was so close to Cabrillo that his blood splashed Juan's sleeve.

Several other bullets hit the window, starring the glass and weakening it enough so that when Cabrillo threw himself against it it failed spectacularly. He crashed into the Mississippi in a hail of shards, forcing himself as deep as he could.

The water was pitch-black just inches below the surface. By feel, he swam along the hull as the Natchez Belle continued southward. He could sense the vibration of her props through the river and hear the relentless churning of her decorative stern wheel.

Juan surfaced just under where the hull and deck met, in an area protected from above. The boat was moving at about four knots, and its passage pulled him through the water at nearly the same speed. He jammed his pistol into its holster to free up his hands.

Like on a traditional stern-wheeler, there was a rocker arm protruding over the side of the ship, like the pistons that drive a locomotive's big wheels. On the Belle, it wasn't functional, only an additional element to make her look authentic.

Juan reached out of the water and grabbed one of the support brackets. There was nothing for him to climb higher once his torso was free of the river, however. This part of the ship was a sheer wall. He was partially aboard the ship but trapped along her waterline. The rocker arm lowered him back into the river like a tea bag before drawing him out again. The repetitive motion was nauseating. More shots pierced the night from inside the superstructure. Time was running out, and he knew what he had to do.

Hand over hand, he inched his way slowly aft, until the thirty-foot-diameter wheel loomed over his shoulder and tore at the water next to his waist. Unlike the original vessels where the paddles were made out of wood on a steel framework, the Belle's wheel was all metal.

Juan watched it in the glow of lights shining over the fantail, judging its rotation and the rhythm of the rocker arm, until he was certain.

He lunged for one of the paddles with both hands, managing to get his fingers in position the instant before it sucked him under. The drag against his body threatened to pull his arms out of their sockets, but nothing in the world would make him let go. Just as quickly as he'd been pulled below the surface, he emerged again, streaming water. He was facing away from the ship, so, in the seconds he had, he twisted around so that when he reached the apex of the wheel he was looking at the windows of the Presidential Suite, just below the topside lounge.

Momentum threw him against the glass with more than enough force to shatter it. He landed on a king-sized bed and bounced to his feet. A woman wrapped in a towel was just coming from the bathroom. She screamed at Juan standing there, shaking off glass chips and water.

In moments like these, Juan was usually good for a one-line quip, but he was too stunned by the impact and the wild ride around the stern wheel. He gave the woman a charming smile, and strode from the cabin.

Only ten minutes had passed since he'd dived in the river. Ten minutes in which Max was alone, outgunned three to one. Juan pulled his pistol, racked back the slide to drain it, and blew into the receiver. It was the best he could do, but the Glock was a hardy weapon that had never failed him before.

The hallway outside the woman's cabin was deserted. Orange flicker bulbs meant to look like candles cast bizarre shadows from the wall sconces. It gave the dim hall the feel of a haunted house. Juan's shoes squelched with each footfall, and he was leaving a trail of stinking river water in his wake. A door suddenly opened a crack, and an eye peered out.

Close the door and stay inside, Juan said. The person didn't need to be told twice. Even if he hadn't been armed, Juan's voice demanded compliance.

The screaming had stopped, which in a hostage situation means the gunmen now had complete control and the crowd had become docile. That wasn't a good sign.

Juan found a stairwell, ducked his head around quickly, and then committed himself when it was clear. He eased his way up until he could see the floor of the topmost deck. From this vantage, it looked deserted, so he climbed a little higher. Despite the sultry air, he felt chilled in his sopping clothes.

There were a cluster of people standing and kneeling around a prone form. Cabrillo's heart felt like it had stopped in his chest. There were no Argentine gunmen here, just passengers, and with a sickening dread he knew who was down.

He raced from his cover position. A woman yelled when she saw him running toward them, a pistol dangling from his hand. Others turned, but Juan ignored them. He burst into the circle of people.

Max Hanley lay flat on his back, blood coating half his face and forming a black puddle on the polished wooden deck. Juan scooped up his head and pressed his fingers against his friend's neck in the vain search for a pulse. Surprisingly, it was there, and strong.

Max, he called. Max, can you hear me? He looked up at the crowd staring down on them. What happened?

He was shot, and the gunmen grabbed some woman and took off downstairs.

Cabrillo used his coattail to wipe away the blood and saw a long oozing trench along Hanley's temple. The bullet had grazed him. Max probably had a concussion and would certainly need stitches, but chances were he would be fine.

Juan got to his feet. Please look after him.

He raced back down the stairs again, anger and adrenaline making him reckless. The Argentines had approached the Belle from the port side, so he raced across the ship and descended another flight of steps to the main deck.

In front of him was the entry door where just hours ago he and Max had boarded the stern-wheeler. It was open, and through it he could see the dark silhouette of a man. He shouted, and when the man turned and confirmed he was wearing a ski mask, Cabrillo fired a double tap to the torso. The man fell back, his head hitting something with an empty thud, and then he splashed into the water.

Marine engines roared an instant later. Juan ran to the open door to see the back of the cigarette boat pulling away, a rooster tail of white water forming in its wake as it gained speed. He raised his pistol in a two-handed combat grip but held his fire. It was too dark to see anything but shapes, and he couldn't risk hitting Tamara.

He doubled over, breathing hard, and fought to control his emotions.

He'd failed. There was no other way to look at it. He had failed, and now Tamara Wright was going to pay for it. He turned away in disgust with himself, and, out of stupid testosterone-fueled anger, punched a decorative mirror hanging on a nearby wall. His reflection went crazy in the shattered glass, and his knuckles came away bloody.

Juan took another couple of deep breaths to compose himself and start his brain thinking rationally again. The list of favors he would need to call on to get him and Max out of this mess was going to be monstrous.

For now, though, the important thing was Max. He felt his phone vibrate as he rushed back up the stairs, but he ignored it. That it had amazingly survived its dunking was a fact of so little importance that it never entered Cabrillo's mind. The feel of the ship had changed, and the seaman in him told him the Belle's captain had slowed so they could turn back for Vicksburg, where every cop on duty would be waiting.

It was going to take some fast talking to keep himself out of prison. The shootings would eventually be proven justified, but there was still the fake ID, the unregistered guns, and the fact that he and Max had lied to customs to get into the country in the first place. This was why Juan preferred to work in the Third World. There, a judicious bribe in the right hands bought your freedom. Here, it tacked another couple of years to your sentence.

Up on deck, people were still clustered around Max, but Juan could see that his friend was sitting upright. The blood had been cleared from his face, and a man was holding a bar towel to the side of his head.

I'm sorry, he said when Juan squatted down at his side. I went to pull Tamara behind me, and the guy just opened fire. One went wide, but the second . . . He pointed to his head. I went down like a sack of potatoes. They get her?

I got one of them, but, yeah, they got her.

Damn.

That's putting it mildly. Juan's phone vibrated again. This time he pulled it out to check who was calling. This can't be good.

Langston, you've got lousy timing, he said to the veteran CIA agent.

You're not going to believe what happened about two hours ago.

Juan had put it together when the gunmen stormed the ship, and said, Argentina just announced that they're annexing the Antarctic Peninsula, and China has already recognized their sovereignty.

How could you . . . ? Overholt's voice trailed off in incredulity.

And I can guarantee that when this comes up at the UN tomorrow, the Chinese will use their veto power as permanent members of the Security Council to kill any resolutions condemning the annexation.

They've already announced they would. How did you know?

That's going to take a little explaining, but first I think I'm going to need a favor. Do you happen to know anybody in the Vicksburg Ph.D.? Cabrillo asked this as the ship's purser showed up with two goons from the engine room carrying wrenches the size of baseball bats.

A second later, he was facedown on the deck, with one goon sitting on his back while the second gorilla pinned his legs. The purser was holding the Glock like a tarantula in one hand and had Cabrillo's cell in the other. Juan hadn't bothered putting up a fight. He could have taken out all three, but he had Max to consider.

He just wished Overholt had answered him, otherwise this was going to be a long night.